


A Tragedy Of Ignorance

by MelisandreStark



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Non-Explicit Smut, no hate 2 celeborn, they are just rly sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-21 15:57:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18705565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelisandreStark/pseuds/MelisandreStark
Summary: Gandalf, after many a century, returns to the woods of Lorien about 8 years before Smaug takes Erebor.





	A Tragedy Of Ignorance

He has been here before, of course—Gandalf has been all over Middle Earth and back around again, a wanderer and traveller at heart—but there is no place quite like Lórien.

The trees are tall with an ethereal like grace, looming like great living pillars watching over every creature, great or small, that leaves beneath the willowy leaves. It is the one place on Middle Earth that is strikingly _light,_ almost abnormally so; and that is not just a simple elven trait, for Gandalf has spent many a year in Rivendell and the Great Greenwood back when King Oropher ruled and it has never once compared to the sheer originality and purity of the Lothlórien.

Then again, he supposes as he walks past the enormously tall and steady trunks down an ever familiar soil road, there is a reason why he avoids the light heart of the forest at almost all costs. He has only ever been here once before, shamefully, more than a thousand years ago. Over the years when passing by he has even made unnecessary and long detours simply to avoid the one place he treasures above all else, the one place he’s knows he is eternally welcomed.

It is simple to avoid the place when there is nothing drawing him back save personal longing, but while spending some time in the Iron Hills he received a summons from Lord Celeborn himself that was vague yet urgent. No, Gandalf is an honourable wizard and has too much respect for Lord Celeborn to ever ignore a summons for personal, petty reasons—and that is why he finds himself walking down this ancient familiar path to Lórien.

He does not know whether he is disappointed or relieved that it is in fact Celeborn who calls for him rather that the Lady of Light. He has heard many a tale but never actually met the Lord of Lórien in the flesh—the last time Gandalf was here the lord as absent—but is very familiar with the forest’s Lady, even if he has not seen her in these woods for over a 1000 years now.

Gandalf cannot help the deep internal urge to turn around and go back way he came—forget about the summons, the elves, Celeborn and just find something else to do with himself. But, as well as he knows the Lórien despite field experience, he knows that Haldir has most definitely already spotted him and the dozens of elves concealed masterfully within their forest are watching him like hawks as he walks down the path alone (and have probably already notified Celeborn of his pending arrival).

It’s too late to go back now—and it is guiltily that the wizard admits to himself that, if the opportunity had arisen, he would most likely go back in time and walk to other way.  

The closer he gets to the heart of the forest, the deeper the sun sets and the gentle white lights that are all too reminiscent of the Lady of Light shine to guide his path on further. The elves that do reside in the Lothlórien live high up in the trees, not quite breaking through the canopies—and while there is a strong aura of harmony and peace that is permanently drifting between branches and underfoot it does not take Gandalf long to sense something here is wrong, different, out of place.

He approaches one of the staircases that wind around one of the larger trees and begins his ascent, clutching is staff for more moral comfort that anything else as a few silver haired elves drift past him absently. It shouldn’t take as much mental preparation as it does to appear indifferent and curious as he finally approaches the blinding throne-like area that Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel would always formally greet their guests.

Inhaling deeply, Galdalf steps into the clearing where he is simultaneously relieved, disappointed and worriedly curious to see Celeborn before him, alone.

The wizard inclines his head in respect and looks up at the elf. “Lord Celeborn.”

“Mithrandir.” There is an abrasive scratchiness in Lord Celeborn’s voice that Gandalf finds himself mildly annoyed about. _You are beyond petty,_ he admonishes himself, knowing that in truth his voice is probably perfectly normal but in his jealousy and immaturity he want, _needs,_ to find some sort of fault in this elven lord. “I am extremely relieved that you came to us with haste.”

It’s most likely a formality, or perhaps a reflection of the unfamiliarity between the two of them, because Gandalf can testify with a little shame that his journey to Lórien was most definitely not made with any sort of haste. He, in fact, took about three detours and double the amount unnecessary rests simply to delay his arrival at this beautiful, dreadful forest.

The wizard glances either side of him and sees no one but is not young and naive enough not to still realise that there are guards watching every move he makes closely. “Would you like to speak privately, my Lord?” He asks instead of offering any form of formality back.

“Of course.” Celeborn says, and starts off up a set of pure white stairs unstained and untarnished with the nature that it lays within. It is an extremely small and petty victory that his boots are trailing some mud left over from the path on the pristine staircase (though, more internally, Gandalf knows that Celeborn most likely does not care for the state of the stairs, and the only victory he’s won is annoying whoever is in charge of cleaning in the Lothlórien).

The Lord of Lothlórien leads Gandalf to a rather large ivory palace, higher up than any other in the forest to highlight his (and his wife’s) status. It is modesty that leads Celeborn and his wife to describe themselves as Lord and Lady when in reality they, here, are royalty. “Is the Lady of Light not present?” Gandalf asks with an air of harmless curiosity that is complete and utter deceit.

“She is here.” Celeborn says, and Gandalf feels his stomach drop for that raises so many more questions than it answers.

He could press for more, and normally he absolutely would. In this rather delicate situation, however, Gandalf finds himself extremely wary and conscious that Lady Galadriel’s husband is no fool and each word that leaves his mouth must be calculated and careful. Not because he has any true mal intent towards the ellon who seems to drift through the door in front of him, holding it for Gandalf, but because he fears for the secrets that the Lord does not know and should never know.

The wizard is led to a small room with an open fourth wall that looks out on the forest. It is almost silent, the only sound being the gentle whistling of the wind under the silver moonlight, and becomes uncomfortable far more quickly than normal.

“May I ask why I was summoned here, my lord?” Gandalf asks, blue eyes pouring into the uncertain ones of his counterpart.

“There have been some...” Celeborn pauses, leaning against the wall in seeming contemplation. If he had been anywhere else then this break in word would not have bother Gandalf in the slightest but he is _here,_ and _here_ he simply does not have the patience to wait for Celeborn’s, or anyone’s, well-crafted sentences with ambiguous meanings and morals. “Issues, here in the forest, of late.”

The sheer level of vague that that is makes Gandalf more than a little frustrated. “Is there anything you would desire my aid in, Lord Celeborn?” He asks trying desperately to keep the urgency and frustration hidden behind a curtain of cool, collected indifference.

“My Lady, the Lady Galadriel, has taken ill.” He says, and Gandalf is unable to keep the unease and confusion and shock off his face—because elves cannot take ill like a human or dwarf, they are immortal and immune to diseases of the body.

(Diseases of the mind, in an opposite was to humans, can be fatal for them however. And Gandalf knows this all too well).

The wizard takes a deep breath and clenches his hand around his staff. “May I see her?”

Celeborn nods. “Yes, you may. She will not wake, and has not woken in a month and a half. I fear she does not have long left and I find myself helpless to aid her.”

Gandalf allows a silence to sit heavily in the air as he follows Celeborn out the room and towards whatever room Galadriel lays. After a moment, just before they stop before the Lady’s room, Gandalf asks, “Why did you think to send for me, of all people, my Lord?”

There is a look of grief on the ellon’s face that makes Gandalf feel almost sorry for him. “Her sleep has been still and silent entirely save for a few whispers.” He says. “And it is the name ‘Mithrandir’ she speaks each time.”

He’s made many mistakes in his life, but none, he realises in this moment, have been as grievous as the one he just made.

Gulping, Gandalf pushes the white door open and finds his eyes watering unexpectedly as he sees the Lady Galadriel, in all her beauty and splendour, laying with her hands over her heart and hair spread out like a halo around her fair, delicate face. The wizard moves before he can even think about it to her side, gently leaning down and pressing the back of his hand to her cheek.

“She is cold.” He says, feeling ill at the notion, not being able to look up at Celeborn for, should they meet eyes, the Lord of Lothlórien would surely see the depth of emotion stemming from his very soul.

(For, it is true, that many years ago Gandalf the Grey bound all but a slither of his soul to the Lady Galadriel, and she to the same to him).

Celeborn sighs, crossing his arms and looking to the ground. “I knew not what else I could do, Mithrandir. I only hope you may have some way to aid her.”

“I shall try everything in my power.” The wizard tells him, keeping his eyes trained on the Lady of Light. “But, Lord Celeborn, I cannot promise you anything.”

“That is all I can ask.”

Celeborn realises a few moments later that, as intently as Gandalf is beginning to focus, that he isn’t going to get another reply, so opts to leave the wizard to try what he can.

It’s only when the elven lord is gone that Gandalf allows a tear to slip from his eyes as he lifts the Lady of Lothlórien’s hand and kisses it gently, just next to her ring, Nenya.

Gandalf has his own ring, a plainer, less intricate one named Nerya. They are two of the same family and it was much the Lady’s delight to use the connection between them to reach her dear Mithrandir even when he travelled to the farthest corners of Middle Earth. She is a telepath and uses that particular gift more frequently than is most likely necessary—Gandalf almost smiles at the many times he’s told her to bugger off out of his head in the past—but with the rings they could reach other wherever, whenever, whatever.

This connection was treasured but also severed, since Gandalf does not wear his ring, and has not for half a millennium. He has it, of course, hidden neatly and safely in his robes where it can serve him should he need it but to wear it became all too difficult after a while—to hear her, speak with her even though he loved her deeply became too painful and distracting, no matter how much he adored to hear her soft, calming voice float through his mind.

Had he kept the ring on, had he been stronger, then it is very likely that he would know the cause of his Lady’s slumber (and he already does know, he’s just in denial). This could have been avoided, prevented, stopped completely.

“My Lady?” He whispers, taking her hand in his own and running little circles on her palm with his thumb. She does not stir.

“If you could be so kind, and I know that I am not deserving, but I feel I have done you a great injustice and would like the opportunity to make it up to you.” He says, eyes looking less than hopeful to her closed pale eyelids. “I do remember the promises I once made you and...regretfully do acknowledge that through my many attempts to make Middle Earth a better place for all its residents I have been plagued with an ignorance for the one who mattered to me the most. And through all my own misdeeds, I suppose I am here to ask one more undeserved favour of you, my dear Lady.”

Her body is completely still save for some shallow but steady breathing, the gentle rise and fall of her chest—his only reassurance that she is still alive.

One hand is kept gently over hers, and another slides in to a hidden pocket to retrieve Nerya. He is not, and never has been a telepath—his talents lay in other areas for the mind has always been a fascination of the Lady Galadriel and lead her to become proficient in understanding, invading, but never controlling it.

Gandalf regards it for a moment, biting his lip slightly weirdly nervous about putting it on. Not because he still fears hearing her—her voice will still bring him an abundance of pain and simultaneous regret that is paired with great relief and joy—but the prospect of him not hearing her, of their bond being as silent as it has been for the past few centuries, is positively terrifying to him.

After a deep breath, slowly and carefully, he slides to red-stoned ring onto his middle finger. The metal isn’t cold, just lukewarm, and sits familiarly and comfortably on his hand as if he had never taken it off at all. There is no great force, no loud shout or burst of power that emerges from Gandalf or the ring after it sits there for a few moments.

Nothing.

He feels like crying until a gentle, calming coolness like water on a hot summer’s day washes over him so timidly that had he not been so absolutely focussed he might have missed it. Also, he notes, the Lady Galadriel’s stiff, cold hand begins to warm a little.

“My Lady?” He says, looking directly past her long blond eyelashes into her mind’s eye, conscious no matter how unconscious she may seem. There is no response, at least not immediately, save for the same cool, watery refreshment that swirls through Gandalf’s mind. Her ring, Nenya, is the water ring—he would be a fool to think it wasn’t her causing this change of feeling—and yet cannot seem to understand why her voice is silent in all ways.

Must she be conscious and actively try in order to speak with him telepathically? When they had had many a conversation from mind to mind so long ago it certainly never felt like a forced action, it was as simple and easy as a conversation from word of mouth.

_My Lady?_ He repeats, this time in his mind, and there is a sudden halt in the breezy freshness that his mind was being washed with. He sits in apprehension for a few seconds, minutes, hours waiting readily for a reply—time is lost in his avid and possibly naive hope for something.

_Mithrandir._ It rings through his head, her sweet yet hardened voice echoing around in only his mind like an oasis in a desert; it’s something he has longed for so much in the little time he’s been sitting at her bedside that he is not quite sure how to respond.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. _My Lady,_ he replies to her, _your husband was very alarmed at your current state and has called upon me to try and help you._

There is a silence in his mind, but not because Galadriel has not heard him. It is a long moment before she eventually replies with _Why did you come here?_

_Because your husband called upon me._

_Would you have not come anyway, just to see us? Me?_ She asks. Her voice is somewhat softer, almost hopeful as if she was the naive young woman she may appear to be at first glance.

Gandalf momentarily considers just saying yes, of course, just to get her back—just to get her to wake up. But he doesn’t, because she would know he was lying and that would be far crueller than just telling her the truth, as bad as it does make him feel and look. _I wish I could say I would have, my Lady, but I’m afraid I would be lying to you._

_Why not, Mithrandir? What have we done to offend you so?_

_Nothing that could have been avoided._ He keeps his eyes shut tightly. _Nothing that I did not bring upon myself, my Lady._

Gandalf does not see it, because his own eyes are closed, but the Lady’s eyes twitch and flutter. _It was not so long ago that you called me ‘Love’ instead of ‘Lady’, Mithrandir._ His heart clenches and throat closes at that sentiment.

_Not so long ago that I don’t remember._ He replies, unsure and uneasy at the thought of replying with anything else.

_Celeborn doesn’t know._ She tells him. _I have not the heart to tell him, nor the strength._

_You have more strength that every living creature in Middle Earth put together, my Lady._

_Your love._

_I’m sorry?_

_I am not your Lady._ If he had not known her so well, Gandalf may have taken her voice as calm and collected but he can sense, _feel,_ the frustration that is almost anger on her part. _You loved me once, where is that gone, Mithrandir, my love?_

This is exactly why he had avoided this place. Because she is right, and he is wrong, and he hurts. _You have pledged yourself to another, my_ Lady. _You are not mine to call love._

_That is not what you told me long ago when I named you my One. You promised me the all the stars in the sky, the moon and sun and_ you.

_And if you were not married to another then I would gladly give them to you._

For all his denial and misjudgement, it would be unjust to name him the sole perpetrator in this thorny, tangled mess of emotion. He is just a grey wanderer, a simple wizard (or at least most would think) with a love for hobbits and fireworks and a fair elven queen—and she is, no matter how she may pretend to be ignorant of it, so much more than him. The second Gandalf arrives it is almost as if Celeborn—her _husband_ —has ceased to exist. She cares for him greatly, if she did not she would never have married him, but he is not her One and a light, kind creature such as herself requires the kind of love only Gandalf can give her to survive. Celeborn is who she should love, he is perfect in appearance, temperament, devotion and intellect, but her inability to do so has led her down a darkened path of ignorance of him and his own heart.

_He is not my One._ Is all she can think of in response, because it’s true.

_And I am not your husband. Just a simple wizard helping a Lord who desired aid._

_You lie._

These moral debates are not what Gandalf was summoned here for, and he takes a deep breath and tries to take his words in a more practical direction. _Why do you sleep, my Lady?_

_Do not pretend to not understand—you are not near naive enough for that, Mithrandir._

Outwardly, he sighs. He does know. Elves are immortal beings, they cannot take ill or die of age—they can only die in battle or of a deep depression that attacks them slowly, painfully, over long centuries. Gandalf had never quite accepted be meant enough to Galadriel to cause something like this, and also has come to the conclusion that even if she wanted to she could not just simply wake.  _Tell me how I can help you._

She is silent.

_I am sorry if I have caused you pain, my Lady, and do severely regret that my actions may have caused you much pain over time._

_And what about you?_

He is slightly taken aback. _What about me?_

_Do you hurt, Mithrandir, or am I deluded and unrequited?_

Oh, how much easier it would be to just lie. _You are neither of those things, and you never have been. I wish that I could just take you away from this place, bring you on my travels and never look back but the hard and awful truth is that you must remain here, with your husband, and I have another path to walk. I regret that I have chosen not to hear you for too long for my own selfish reasons—it was just simply too hard to hear you every day and know that I could not hold you as my own, never kiss you as my wife and my love and lady for you belonged to someone else._

It is difficult, terribly difficult, for him to be honest with her like this simply because he knows it will only encourage the relationship that he wants so badly (and that is pulling him in more and more every extra minute he spends with her).  Had he complete choice of anything in the moment, he would whisk her far away from Lothlórien and start anew somewhere else, somewhere peaceful and happy where no problems stood in they’re way.

But Celeborn exists, and their responsibilities exist, so it is never that simple.

_Take me._ She tells him. Her voice sounds almost tearful in his head. _Not for a long time, if you don’t want. Like a holiday, only a few years. Let me travel with you just for a little while and then bring me back here—but let me stay with you, always, for I cannot be without the comfort of knowing that you are safe and content._

It’s tempting. So tempting. But can she really just do that, leave for a few years and come back when it becomes overwhelmingly necessary? Celeborn has left before for longer periods of time, but never more than a single year at once, though Gandalf supposes that a year really is quite an insignificant measure of time for an elf.

It is also not implausible that after a period of malaise the Lady of Light may want some change in scenery, and travel briefly for some fresh air with an old friend. Gandalf feels almost guilty about the deception that would have to take place; he dislikes Celeborn for reasons the ellon cannot control for in truth the Lord of Lórien is honourable and true—and if Gandalf is as honourable as he then he should not whisk his wife away just because he still loves her.

_What about Celeborn?_ He finds himself replying even though he knows it will frustrate her.

_What about him? He shall stay here and rule the Lothl_ _órien in my stead, and will do an outstanding job of it._

It takes a while but eventually, feeling guilty yet excited in equal amounts, he whispers _Yes_ to her.

* * *

 

 

It takes her month to come back to consciousness fully. The elves note that she becomes more responsive when Gandalf is around her—it begins with gently flickers of her eyes and hand twitches and progresses over the weeks to rolling, clenching and a few more words until her eyes finally open exactly 30 days after the grey wizard arrived.

There is not a minute that Gandalf is not beside her (he tells the elves it’s to speed up her recovery, which it partly is, but also because her presence is like a drug to him and its becoming harder and harder to withdraw) until her eyes open completely. He leaves almost immediately after, with a gentle kiss to her cheek, to get her husband in the formal, proper manner of doing things. She does not like that he leaves but understands the formality must be followed, and knows that this time he will be back relatively soon after.

Gandalf’s plan had been to wait at least a few weeks before departing together, and she agrees with that idea until they sit down alone and he describes the places he wants to take her, the unknown lands and cities and villages that are alien to this wise elven Lady. “The hills of the shire are greener than the leaves in the forest in summer; they are a little people but with enough joy to keep the entire world afloat. Every now and then I visit them and bring these magnificent fireworks—their faces light up brighter than the colours in the sky, I swear, my lady.”

“I have never met a Halfling.” She says, looking into his eyes with a smile. “Though, now, it seems I have much desire to. Oh, can’t we just escape tonight? I am so anxious to be out of this place my love.”

A millennium ago he might have kissed her right then and there but he has grown, and is not willing to risk anything while they are still in Lothlórien. Even then, outside the forest both of them are extremely recognisable to humans, dwarves and hobbits alike from stories and tales of the past. While Gandalf is a friend to all, the Lady Galadriel has simply not spent anywhere enough time in the company of anything apart from elves to be considered a friend to the other species’ and therefore it’d probably be better to attempt to disguise her somewhat. These are all things they really should discuss before they leave, but her apprehension is rushing them along.

“You need time to pack, announce departure, collect—“

“I have clothes aplenty in my wardrobe.” She tells him and stands, opening an old, regal painted wooden wardrobe that is far larger than anything Gandalf would consider necessary and filled with a plethora of white gowns fit for every occasion—save for, perhaps, this particular excursion.

“Forgive me, but do you have anything that isn’t...white?” She looks mildly confused. “I only ask so you can blend in more with the other folk. Nothing declares ‘Lady of Light’ quite like full white attire.”

Galadriel’s lip perks up into a smile which reaches her eyes. “I do not, I’m afraid. Though I’m sure I’ll be able to find something with Celebrían’s old things...” She trails off and glides out of the room to wherever she keeps her spare things in her and Celeborn’s home.

It is weird to Gandalf to picture her with her daughter, truly bizarre. He’s met Celebrían but only once, in Rivendell when she lived with her husband Elrond and, at the time, young children. She had looked a lot like Celeborn save for her eyes that were so obviously Galadriel’s that it had made him reminiscent. Thinking of her child makes him feel ever more guilty about this trip—he’s a counterpart in her adultery, while she is unfaithful to her husband, the father of her _child_ —and that particular thought makes him feel slightly more awry.

Galadriel returns carrying a modest pile of slightly more colourful attire. “Celebrían was never so inclined towards white.” She explains, finding a satchel to place her things in. She adorns a smile that makes her bright face look like the brightest star to Gandalf. “Oh, how I am excited! I haven’t felt like this in what seems like forever. You truly complete me Mithrandir.”

He bites his lip. “What about Celebrían?”

Her smile falls and that kills him. “What about her?”

“What would she think about...this?”

There is a long pause and Galadriel is still. “She is an intelligent elleth, Mithrandir. She would not question what doesn’t concern her.” She says in a tone that could almost be perceived as harsh.

He considers taking the point further but decides to drop it. Galadriel hasn’t seen her daughter for centuries now since she set sail to Valinor after a dreadful Orc attack; Gandalf had been away at the time and when he finally arrived to comfort her Celebrían was already gone. The Lady of Light did not cry for her daughter, though was most definitely very saddened by what had happened—her mask of seeming indifference may have made her appear cold to some, and is, to an extent, quite a cold response in nature, but Gandalf knows her well and sees that her repression is her way to deal and move on with her daughter’s tragedy.

The moon is high when she goes to her husband and informs him of their imminent departure, kisses him on the cheek and promises a safe return before he’ll even notice she’s gone. Gandalf waits for her on the ground with his ring still firmly placed on his finger until she finally makes her own descent and meets him.

“Are you ready to go, my lady?” He asks.

“Of course.” She says. “But wouldn’t you like to take a carriage? We could bring gifts for the Halflings.”

A grin spreads over his features. She may have ignorant and colder tendencies, but in this moment he is reminded why he fell in love with her so deeply all those years ago—her care and thought and love for everything around her, something that he feels too just, perhaps, less purely.

“I think that would be very kind.” He says. “Though I would remember they are just as much people as the rest of us, just in smaller packages—they may not take it as endearment should you name them Halflings, though I know you do not mean any offense by it.”

“I shall remember.” She nods and they walk deeper into the forest together, round to the stables where (unsurprisingly) every horse is as white as Lady Galadriel’s gowns. Gandalf walks up to one and brushes it gently on the side with his hand, smiling slightly.

The Lady has a carriage with supplies arranged quickly, and two of the horses to come with them, so after about an hour of admittedly rushed preparations the pair set off on the journey. It’s very late so Gandalf takes them just far enough that they’re somewhere safe outside of the forest before they feed the horses, and let them down until the morning comes.

“Come here, Mithrandir.” Galadriel says with a thick white blanket around her sat back in the sheltered carriage. “Share your warmth with me.”

He happily complies and sits next to her, her golden crown of hair falls limply beside her as she leans her head on his shoulder. It’s started to rain—the gentle pattering of droplets overhead is the only sound save for both their soft breaths as they stay there for hours, so very content and happy in each other’s company.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, as is the case for the rest of the journey, Galadriel changes into some brown breeches with a baggy blue tunic over the top—hair all pulled up on the top of her head and secured seemingly by some gravity-resistant force of nature. Gandalf, who in all his time has never even been able to imagine the Lady of Light in anything other than her trademark white, is shocked to say the least.

“M-My Lady?”

She chuckles at his reaction. “Are you alright, my love?”

“Perfectly.” He gulps. “And you?”

Galadriel nods. “It is bizarre not feeling the wind on my legs but I do not mind it overly. It is certainly more comfortable that I expected.” The elleth hops up onto the front of the carriage and takes the horses reigns—as lithe and full of life as a young human girl. Somehow (in a way that Gandalf cannot quite comprehend himself) she manages to make the rugged traveller look elegant and collected all the same and that brings a smile to his face as he sits down beside her and the horses start to plod along happily.

It is a peaceful time in Middle Earth, but that doesn’t mean that travelling through the wilderness without any soldiers for protection isn’t risk free. Her instincts are far better than his when it comes to detecting people nearby so being snuck up on isn’t a worry of his, rather the notion that anything could spoil the initial and excitement and unique joy he is finding just being around the person he’s made such an effort to avoid for so long.

After a little while of travelling, and much to Galadriel’s suppressed excitement, the reach the shire and see the hobbits that Gandalf loves so much. Like a fish to water, the elven Lady is completely enthralled with the little people and during the three months they spend in Hobbiton, spending much of her time telling them stories and tales from thousands of years past, teaching them histories, languages and a multitude of other things—showing the children little elven tricks that seem completely mystic and magical in this sheltered corner of Middle Earth.

Her decision is to give them a different name, which is something that Gandalf condones and agrees with completely. The name ‘Gandalf’ is, generally, loved and at least respected by all living creatures largely due to the sheer time he has spent trying to relate, understand and aid all peoples no matter the culture, background or species—and while Galadriel is seen as a beacon of hope and light in the elven world, to others she is just a scary foreign witch who stays holed up in the cursed forests of Lothlórien to others. To these hobbits, and all others that they have come across on their journey she is Earwen—a simple young elf who had gotten lost in the woods, and came upon a friendly grey wizard who decided to aid her.

When they finally decide to move on from Hobbiton—carriage and almost all of their possessions left behind—Galadriel finds herself hugging an onslaught of little people while Gandalf smokes his pipe from a small distance watching with a smile stretching from ear to ear.

“Don’t go, Earwen!” One of the hobbit children cries clinging onto her leg. “I’ll miss you too much!”

“I’m afraid it is time for me to move on, little one.” Galadriel runs her pale white hand through the hobbit’s thick curly hair with a soft smile. “But perhaps one day I shall return to see you again, and even if not I shall certainly remember you all forever.”

“Forever and ever?” The hobbit raises her eyebrows hopefully.

“Forever and ever.” The Lady of Light confirms, and kisses the hobbit gently on the top of her head.

“Come, Earwen.” Gandalf gestures to her. “We have a ways to go before the sun sets tonight.”

Nodding in understanding, she stands and blows a kiss to the hobbits that have all gathered to wave them off before joining her wizard en route.

 

* * *

 

 

They travel to Bree and lodge in a small, relatively empty inn. Every night since their departure has been spent in each other arms for comfort, but she does not kiss him properly, with passion, until this night. Her soft, pale hands tangle in his thick tangle of grey locks—she holds him like the mortal hold onto life, like he’s the be all and end all of her existence, like this is the last night they have together.

And he lets her. His regret and guilt dissipates and dissolves into the air and he forgets all about Celeborn, Celebrían, the hobbits and everything else; it is only him and her, the two of them, eternally and immovably chained together from soul to soul in that small inn in Bree.

He lets her touch him, and he touches her, in ways they have not since years far, far younger—before life drove them apart, before they grew into whatever _this_ is that they have become. Lovers, perhaps, except it is not her body that he would die a thousand times for, rather her spirit and heart and soul that he is tightly bound to—and she encourages their making love for no reason other than there is no way for her to be closer to him, in mind and body.

When they both finish, she rather un-gracefully slumps down next to him, still clutching his hand tightly, and kisses his cheek slowly. He squeezes her hand and glances and the beautiful elleth laying naked next to him, vulnerable, exposed—only to him. “I love you.” He whispers, looking deep into her cerulean eyes.

“Gi melin.” She replies, bringing his wrinkled and spotted hand to her cheek and resting it there. “Never leave me again, Mithrandir.”

He cannot promise that, and had he been anywhere else but here, in this bed, naked and together with this elleth he loves so much he might have reinforced this. But he’s here, so instead he just says “Aye.”

They fall asleep in each other’s warm embrace, and stay in bed awhile the next morning before setting off again.

 

* * *

 

 

She had known exactly what she’d been getting into when she chose to be intimate with him. Galadriel is never unaware, the day before, during, or after—simply ignorant of the facts. It is for this reason that she remains with Gandalf for exactly one year after that night and then slips away in the black of night like a thief leaving a golden gift that he didn’t ask for, and regrettably doesn’t want without Galadriel beside him.

He holds onto it for a couple of years and then passes it off to another, continuing his life as if their trip had never happened as she does.

Galadriel returns to Lothlórien as if nothing had happened, returns to her duties there and her husband who has dearly missed her. He goes to aid the dwarves of Erebor once the dragon Smaug takes their castle and distracts himself there—unwilling and unable to think back to person he loves more than life.

They both keep their rings on, though. Few words are spoken through there bond in the long years before they meet again, but there is no hostility or anger—only an aching longing that can cruelly never be sated since nature does not will it.


End file.
